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My mouth is dry. I glance at Corrick, who’s well and truly sleeping now. I’m not sure what to say. The rebels might not hate me—but they might not listen to me. I’m not entirely sure I trust Harristan either. He might want his people to stop dying, but we have very different ideas of how to accomplish that. I know he can’t snap his fingers and change everything, but I’m not naive enough to think he’d do that even if he could.
I think of my father, acting in defiance of the throne. Would he do this? Or would he be disappointed I’m not running the streets with the rebels myself?
King Harristan is watching me, and I’m sure he can read every emotion as it crosses my face. His expression is as sly and calculating as ever. “Perhaps I should have started by asking what it is that you want.”
I smooth my sweaty palms along my skirts. “I want . . .” My voice is breathy again, and I clear my throat. I want people to stop dying. But we all want that.
I take a breath and look at him. “I want a pardon for the rebels. Or . . .” I search for the right word. “Or amnesty. Both.” I glance at Corrick again, asleep under his brother’s jacket. I have to steel my nerve to add, “Including the people who hurt him.”
Harristan’s expression hardens, and I rush on, “They won’t listen to you at all if they think you’re going to execute them for hurting the King’s Justice.”
“Very well,” he concedes. “What else?”
I can’t believe I’m negotiating with the king. I don’t know what else to ask for. Medicine for everyone? I know he can’t grant that. Then a thought occurs to me.
“I want you to let Corrick stop being the King’s Justice,” I say softly.
At that, Harristan frowns. “I did not force him into the role. He is not indentured in some way.”
“I know. I know.” I take a breath. “But . . .”
My voice trails off.
“If I may,” says Quint, “at the risk of interrupting your negotiations . . .”
“Please,” I say, just as Harristan says, “No.”
I fold my arms.
Harristan smiles, and for the first time, it reaches his eyes. I wonder if he hides as much as Corrick. “Go ahead, Quint.”
“Prince Corrick may not need your permission,” says Quint, “but I believe it would mean a great deal to know he has it.”
“Fine,” says Harristan. His gaze hasn’t left mine. “Anything else?”
I think. “No.”
“Nothing for yourself? What I have asked of you is not a small thing, Tessa.”
For half a second, my thoughts whirl. He’s the king. But I’ve never done any of this for financial gain, and I have no desire to require it as part of helping him negotiate peace. Then I consider Mistress Solomon’s, and how I likely no longer have a position there.
“I’ll need a job,” I say. “And lodgings. Nothing . . . ?nothing grand, of course. But you were going to give me an opportunity to help improve dosages before.” I hesitate, wondering if I’m asking too much. “I’d like to have a chance again. When all this is over.”
“Done,” he says. He straightens. “Quint, remain with Corrick. I will leave Rocco at your disposal.”
Quintstands, and he looks startled. “But—Your Majesty—”
“You are injured, and so is he. If this place is as remote as it seems, you will be safest here.” He looks at me. “Are you ready to play liaison?”
I feel the blood rush out of my face. I would’ve been brave enough to light the match to ignite the flame. Somehow extinguishing it seems more frightening.
But the king offers me his hand, and much like Corrick, I have a choice in what I’m going to do.
I reach out and take it.
